"Here." Suttle was looking down at the road behind the boot.
Winter followed his pointing finger. Splatter patterns from the dark stain on the tarmac led away towards the kerb.
"Hammered the little bastard." Winter was searching for nearby CCTV cameras. "No wonder he was in such a state."
Suttle was already back on his mobile. The DS on the crime squad was out on inquiries. Mention of Cathy Lamb's name drew Winter to Suttle's side.
"You're going to be talking to her? Cath?"
"Yeah."
"Don't mention the business with the lad you tailed last night, Faraday's boy. Not yet anyway."
"Why not?" Suttle was staring at him, bewildered.
"Just don't, that's all. Has the skipper seen your pocketbook?"
"No."
"Good. I've just got a couple of calls to make. Then everything'll be sweet."
"But ' "Just do it. Call it a favour. That asking too much?" He shot Suttle a grin, then returned to the car, concentrating on the bumpers and radiator grille.
Suttle bent to the phone again. When he finally got hold of Cathy Lamb, she told him to stay with the vehicle while she raised Scenes of Crime. They'd need to go through it inch by inch to establish ownership.
Suttle mentioned the Major Crimes interest. There was a moment's silence while Cathy Lamb computed the possible implications.
"You're telling me we might be able to link this vehicle to Nick Hayder?"
"Yeah." Suttle was eyeing Winter. "You should see the state of the bonnet."
"Excellent. I'll talk to Major Crimes. Keep the kids off the car."
Cathy Lamb rang off. Winter was squatting in front of the Cavalier.
Careful not to touch anything, he indicated an area beneath one of the headlights. The metalwork had been recently attacked by someone using a wire scourer, the circular gouge marks clearly visible.
"Since when did scroats like these worry about the state of their motor?" He glanced up at Suttle. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"
Eadie Sykes was on the phone to the mortuary when Rick Stapleton knocked at her office door. She glanced at the proffered warrant card and waved him in, nodding towards a vacant chair while she finished her conversation. The mortuary technician's name was Jake. She'd talked to him already that morning, establishing the time lag between the blood tests and the imminent post-mortem, and now she wanted to be sure she could gain access to the mortuary at least half an hour before the first cut.
"To do what, exactly?"
"To shoot video."
"You can't do that."
"With permissions I can."
"Like whose?"
"Like the next of kin. And the coroner."
"Doesn't happen." Eadie could picture the wag of the head. "Not in my experience. First off, you've got to ' "I'm afraid I've got someone here." Eadie cut him off. "Do you mind if I ask you one quick question? How long from start to finish? It's a question of tape, really. Hate to miss anything."
"Home Office job, you're talking hours. This is local as far as I know. Forty-five minutes, max."
Eadie thanked him and pocketed the phone before scribbling herself a note. Then she glanced up. Rick Stapleton was wearing a black polo neck sweater under a gorgeous leather jacket. He carried a hint of expensive aftershave and looked a great deal fitter and less careworn than other detectives she'd met. He returned her smile with interest.
She liked him on sight.
"So what's Ambrym?"
"It's an island in the New Hebrides. I was born there."
"But you're Australian, right?"
"Fraid so. My dad was in the government service. He taught English on the island. We stayed there until I was eleven."
"And that's it?" Stapleton was on his feet now, inspecting a dog-eared poster Eadie had carted halfway round the world: a deep-blue lagoon framed by palm trees and shell-bursts of frangipani with a tumble of tropical clouds overhead. "Looks good."
"God's acre. Paradise. I wept for days when we finally bailed out."
"And here? Southsea?"
"Paradise lost. You want coffee? My life story? Or is there some other way I can help you?"
Stapleton said no to coffee and produced a pocketbook. In the end he'd take a formal statement but first he had a couple of questions.
"You make videos. Is that right?"
"Yes."
"And you were with a young man last night? Daniel Kelly?"
"Correct."
"What time was that? Approximately?"
"Around half five. We were there a couple of hours max. He is was a junkie. We were ' "Was?"
"I understand he's dead."
"How do you know?"
"A friend of his, Sarah. She phoned me this morning. She was the one who gave us the initial introduction. We did an interview with him last night. About his habit."
"How was he?"
"Brilliant. You want me to show you?"
Without waiting for an answer, Eadie leaned across and pressed the play button on the video machine. By now she was word-perfect on Daniel's attempts to get his life into some kind of focus.
"This guy was a gift." She boosted the volume on the video. "Just listen."
Stapleton turned to watch but his attention soon flagged.
"The guy's strung out." He smothered a yawn. "What else did you tape?"
"After the interview, he shot up."
"And you taped that?"
"Of course we did."
"Then what?"
"He went to bed."
"And died."
"That was later. After we'd gone."
"Can you prove that?"
Eadie stared at him, indignant, still aware of the murmur of Daniel's voice from the video.
"Prove it?"
"Yes." Stapleton held her gaze. "We're looking at a suspicious death here. You may have been the last to see the guy. I need to know where you went. And at what time."
Eadie finally looked away, telling herself that this man was simply doing his job. The post-mortem would presumably establish a time of death. After leaving the flat in Old Portsmouth, she'd returned to the office to view the rushes and plan the rest of the movie.
"I was here from around eight to gone midnight." She gestured at the pile of video cassettes beside the PC. "I made four or five calls on my landline. They'd all show up on the billing."
"And after that?"
"I went home."
Stapleton nodded and made a note in his pocketbook. Then he looked up again.
"Was it smack he was using?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"I've seen it before. Plus he told me.. She nodded at the screen.
Stapleton paused a moment, listening to Daniel describing his days in Australia, then returned to Eadie. He wanted to know where the heroin had come from. When Eadie told him about the delivery, he pressed her for more detail.
"I haven't got any. One minute we were sitting in front of the camera, the next he was off down the stairs to sort himself out. Then he was back again. End of story."
"Yeah." Stapleton scribbled another note. "End of story." He looked up. "The lad fixing… That's on this tape?"
"No. There's another one."
"I'm afraid I'll have to seize them both. You'll get a receipt, of course, and the coroner's officer will return the tapes once the inquest is over." He paused, eyes straying back to the screen. "You said "we", earlier."
"That's right. Me and the cameraman."
"He's got a name?"
"J-J-'
"J-J- What sort of name's that?"
"Dunno. You'll have to ask his father. The boy's deaf." Mention of deafness brought Stapleton's head round. The smile was chillier this time.
"And his surname?" he said softly. "This boy of yours?"
J-J rode to the top of Portsdown Hill. He'd acquired the bike only recently, his first-ever, and after a week of wobbling around the city he and the travel-worn old Ridgeback had b
ecome inseparable. He loved the freedom and reach the bike gave him. He loved the way he could thread a path through the longest rush-hour traffic jams. And most of all, as he mustered the confidence to tackle the big fold of chalk to the north of the city, he loved the way his body somehow found the strength to keep pumping up the long, long hill. The closer to the top he got, the more aware he became of the thunder of his own pulse. He could feel it in every corner of his thin frame. He could hear it in his head. For the first time in his life, he thought he understood the meaning of sound.
Today, though, was different. Halfway up the hill, exhausted, he'd got off and pushed, head down, walled off from the press of traffic on the main road north. Now and again, a juggernaut would shoulder past, a sudden buffeting and the stink of diesel, but J-J was oblivious. All he could think of, all that mattered, were the images he'd seen. First in the camera's viewfinder. Then in Eadie's office. The stuff he hadn't shot the spoon, the syringe, the needle, Daniel Kelly's stumbling path to bed had lodged at the very front of his brain, billboard-huge, the most public of accusations. You helped kill this sad, sad man. You helped kill him as surely as if you'd loaded a gun and handed it across. You delivered the money, arranged the delivery, took advantage of his distress, and walked away. Could any other betrayal be as damning — and as terminal as that?
Sprawled on the grass at the top of the hill, J-J didn't know. After a while, trying to make sense of the last twenty-four hours, he propped himself on his elbows and gazed down at the city spread before him.
Familiar landmarks. The gleaming spread of the harbour. The looming greyness of the naval dockyard. Beetle-sized cars, racing along the motorway that looped into the city. He'd lived with these images for longer than he could remember yet today they seemed cold and alien, a sudden glimpse of life on a distant planet. How come a couple of guys from Pennington Road had killed Daniel Kelly? And how come he'd let himself become part of all that?
The longer he thought about it, the more important he knew it was to try and make some kind of decision. Events had marooned him, washed him up in a place he hated, and it was time he took charge again. Maybe he should pack a rucksack, hop on a ferry, and have another crack at France. Or maybe he should sit down with his dad, explain the whole thing, and see where the conversation led. His dad, to his certain knowledge, would insist on the truth coming out. That J-J, his precious bloody son, had stolen up on a man standing on the edge of his own grave, tapped him on the shoulder, then given him that final nudge.
Yuk.
J-J lay on his back, his eyes closed, soaking up the thin warmth of the early spring sunshine until another idea began to take shape, a stroke so bold that it hit him with an almost physical impact. A couple of years back, he'd spent some time with a young kid called Doodie.
There'd been lots wrong with Doodie's world, much of it Doodie's fault, but J-J had always been amazed by the straightness of the lines this gutsy little ten-year-old had been able to draw. Given a situation like this, the last thing he'd do was lie around on Portsdown Hill feeling sorry for himself. No, if there were debts to be settled, wrongs to be righted, then actions would speak louder than words. J-J turned the phrase over in his mind, realising with a jolt of pleasure that it had governed his entire life. Actions, not words. Gesture, not language.
Pleased with himself, he thought about the idea a little more. Then he got to his feet, brushed himself down, hauled the Ridgeback upright, and set off down the hill.
Chapter ten
THURSDAY, 20 MARCH 2003, 12.00
Faraday found himself alone at Tumbril HQ on Whale Island. The Mackenzie briefing over, Imber and the young accountant had driven into the city for a meeting with a senior clearing-bank executive with access to Mackenzie's five accounts, while Joyce was over at the HMS Excellent mess, looking for a pint of milk.
Faraday stood at the window, watching a squad of young recruits jogging past. There was a PTI behind them, rounding up the strays, and the sight of the instructor falling into step behind the worst of the laggards brought memories of his own induction course flooding back.
Twenty-five years ago, probationer PCs in Faraday's entry found themselves under the tender care of a burly prop forward who swore that rugby was the shortest cut to heaven. Faraday himself had never been keen on team games but he cycled a lot because it was cheap and knew he was as fit as anyone else in the group. Keeping up with the rest of the pack had therefore been no problem but now, watching the tail-ender redden under the lash of the PTI, he marvelled at how simple the world had then appeared.
At twenty-three, he couldn't wait to get out on the beat. The law, to his faint surprise, was a living thing, continually in the process of change, but once you understood the basic principles and memorised a hundred or so pages of detailed legislation, then applying the thrust of all those weighty clauses seemed on the face of it pretty straightforward. You were there to keep the peace, to safeguard life and property, to protect people from their own worst instincts. Little of this optimism survived his first year in uniform policing was rarely as black and white as he'd imagined but not once had he anticipated ending up heading an operation as complex and inward-looking as Tumbril. What kind of justice required an investigation to be as covert, as walled-off, as this? Of whom were the handful of senior officers in the know really frightened?
At the end of his profile of Bazza Mackenzie, the young accountant had passed Faraday a slender spiral-bound file that summarised his progress to date. With the aid of seized documentation deposit slips, bank accounts, financial transfer instructions he'd laid out a series of audit trails, mapping the sheer reach of Mackenzie's commercial empire.
Referenced and cross-referenced, each of these audit trails dealt with a particular asset a car, a property, a bank account, a business — proving to any jury that real ownership, behind a thousand financial transactions and a small army of relatives, friends, and professional advisers, still lay with Mackenzie. In this way item by item, page by page, Prebble was slowly building a bonfire of Mackenzie's carefully hidden assets, millions of pounds' worth of ill-gotten gains. All Faraday would have to do was provide the spark proof positive that Mackenzie had broken the law and the whole lot would go up in flames.
That way, as Imber kept reminding everyone, we'll really hurt the guy.
And not just him, either, but the handful of high-profile professional advisers who'd flagged his path to the big time.
Faraday stepped away from the window, only too aware of the pressures which had driven Nick Hayder to the brink. Pulling in a u/c officer and seeding a head-to-head with Mackenzie was undeniably clever. But the very boldness of a stroke like this smacked to Faraday of desperation. By being so successful, Mackenzie had made himself virtually impregnable. He had powerful friends. He'd established himself in legitimate business. He'd become, in one of Prebble's laconic asides, the living proof that capitalism works. Some guys built their fortunes on a string of patents. Others dreamed up a brilliant marketing idea. With Bazza Mackenzie it just happened to be cocaine. But who could prove it?
Faraday's mobile began to chirp. He didn't recognise the number. For a moment or two he was tempted to ignore it. Then he had second thoughts.
"Paul Winter. Am I interrupting anything?"
"No. How can I help you?"
"I don't want to talk about it on the phone. Lunch any good? Pie and a pint?"
"Now? Today?" Faraday could see the mountain of files awaiting his attention on the desk across the office.
"Yeah. Sorry about the short notice but you'll be glad you came."
"Why?"
"It's about your boy."
"J-J?"
"Yeah."
"What's happened?"
"Nothing… yet. Still and West? Quarter to one?"
Faraday glanced at his watch. Half two he was due for yet another meeting with Willard and Imber. Until then, his time was his own.
He bent to the phone again. Three years as DIon division h
ad taught him a great deal about Paul Winter. Rule number one was never trust the man. Rule number two was never ignore him. The Still and West was a pub in Old Portsmouth, overlooking the harbour narrows. The last time Faraday had paid a visit, the place had been full of journalists.
"Let's make it the Pembroke. I'll be there for twelve forty-five."
Winter rang off and Faraday found himself still gazing at the number.
The reference to J-J had chilled him to the bone. Given this morning's conversation with Eadie Sykes, there were a thousand and one reasons why the boy might have got himself into trouble, but how, exactly, had he crossed paths with the likes of Paul Winter?
"Sheriff…?"
Faraday spun round. Joyce was back. There was a new carton of semi-skimmed on the shelf beside the electric kettle and she was already reaching for her coat.
"The Pembroke takes you through town." She grinned at him. "You mind giving this lady a lift?"
Faraday's Mondeo was in the car park. There was a queue of vehicles waiting for clearance at the security barrier and the saloon rolled to a halt behind a minibus full of mate lots Faraday glanced sideways at Joyce. The last thing he wanted to talk about was Tumbril.
"How's that husband of yours?"
"History. I binned the marriage a couple of months back."
"Really?" The last time Faraday checked, Joyce had been married to a uniformed Inspector in the Southampton BCU, a dour Aberdonian with a roving eye and a passion for fitness routines. "What happened?"
"One probationer too many, I guess. Plus I wasn't up to serial child molesting, not at the time. Strange thing about cancer, sheriff, it does nothing for your sense of humour. Was I harsh, do you think?
Wishing him God speed?"
Her husband, she told him, had been worse than useless when tests had confirmed the oncologist's suspicions. The Royal South Hants had found her a bed within days but he'd barely managed a couple of visits over the fortnight she'd been in hospital. At the time, she'd believed his excuses about the pressure of work. Only later, thanks to a neighbour, did she discover that he'd moved the latest conquest into the marital home. Strictly as an act of compassion.
"Nineteen-year-old called Bethany. Needed somewhere quiet to study for her probationer's exams. Poor waif. But hey' she flipped down the sun visor and studied her lip gloss in the mirror on the back 'who needs husbands?"
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